


Daffodils in Winter

by goldenratio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Great Hiatus, Language, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Some angst, Surviving, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenratio/pseuds/goldenratio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, it’s hardly a surprise. For the entirety of her acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, she has never been able to deny him anything—why would she deny him this? She knows what she is to him—a willing body to take care of all the ordinary, tedious tasks he hates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’ed, unbrit-picked, please let me know if you see any errors. Constructive criticism welcome.

In retrospect, it’s hardly a surprise. For the entirety of her acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, she has never been able to deny him anything—lab space, a cup of coffee, access to bodies, assistance—why would she deny him this? She knows what she is to him—a willing body to take care of all the ordinary, tedious tasks he hates. 

The first time he appears in her flat, she has just come off a double shift. All she wants to do is call for a takeaway, have a cup of tea, and prop her feet up in front of the telly. She is too tired to even curl up with a good book, which is how she spends most evenings. Those plans are unceremoniously dashed when she turns from locking the door to find Sherlock Holmes perched on her sofa. She barely stifles a startled gasp. Of course, most people would be shocked by the presence of a dead man in their sitting room, but Molly Hooper is made of tougher stuff. It helps, too, that she was the one who helped bring him back from the dead. It had been a huge risk, an incredibly daring risk, but somehow it had worked. Sherlock had fallen and miraculously, they had put him together again. 

She hangs her coat and slings her bag over the chair. No use beating around the bush. Sherlock doesn’t really do social niceties, anyway. “Well,” she says. “I’m sure you have a good reason for being here. Out with it.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I need assistance.”

She studies him, takes in his unkempt appearance and well-worn clothes. “I thought as much, but you’re going to need to be clearer than that. I can’t read your mind.” 

“I regret that the nature of my wound makes it difficult for me to suture it myself, hence, my need for skilled assistance. Seeing as you are the only one acquainted with the particular details of my situation, it seemed prudent to come to you.”

“Oh for—you had better not be bleeding on my sofa, or so help me I will skin you myself.”

He shifts again. “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly, I am applying pressure and thus far all the blood seems to be contained in one area…”

“All right, all right. Here, let’s go into the loo, the lighting’s better there and if you bleed all over the place, it’ll be easier to scrub out. Honestly, Sherlock.” 

She makes him sit on the toilet, before he strips off his shirt and jumper. There’s a large bruise blooming on his arm, and smaller cuts on his chest. Most important, though, is the nasty wound deep in his side, wrapping around to the back. She examines it carefully, plugging in her desk lamp on the counter. “You do need stitches, I’m afraid. You must know I don’t have anything here at the flat for that, I’d have to go back to work or buy some.” Frantically, she tries to think of a place where she might buy sutures at this time of the night. “If you want to wait—”

“No need,” he interrupts smoothly. “I brought supplies with me.” He directs her to the rucksack he left in the sitting room. As she picks up the battered leather bag, she examines it carefully. It is not a bag that she would associate with Sherlock, posh git that he is. But that’s rather the point, she supposes. 

It’s been years since she’s had to stitch up living flesh, but she is neat and careful as she always is. There is no lidocaine, nothing to take away the pain of the needle and silk sliding through his flesh, but when she offers him some paracetamol, all she has, he grits his teeth and waves her away. 

She surreptitiously observes him in the mirror. There are new lines around his mouth, and dark smudges underneath his eyes. His cheekbones are more prominent than ever, and his clothes—nondescript jumper and jeans—hang loosely off his tall frame. His hair, a dull brown, is cropped close to his skull. This close, she notices that he’s wearing brown contacts. 

“So what was it, then?” she asks, in an attempt to distract him. 

“Knife. I was slower than I should have been.” A pause. “I killed him, after.” He stares at her, eyes cold and shuttered, as if daring her to judge him. 

She focuses on the stitches. “Was he a bad man?” The old Sherlock would have scoffed at her naïve choice of words. But the new Sherlock simply says, “I couldn’t let him live.” They sit in silence. 

“Well, I’ve done my worst,” as she ties off the sutures. “I’ll get you a bandage. Will you come back so I can remove them?” 

“No. I…I can do it myself. It’s. Dangerous for me to be here.”  


“Then why are you?”  


“As I said, I could not stitch it myself.”  


She wants to ask him, how is it possible that she was the only person he could go to, out of literally hundreds of others who would be better qualified. It’s a suspicious wound, to be sure, but Sherlock has always been a polished actor. He could have gone into any A&E and have it properly done. As he fidgets and watches her without looking at her, a stray thought strikes her. Perhaps, perhaps he’s…lonely. It’s ludicrous to think—Sherlock, lonely!—but nevertheless the thought persists. She knows he would never admit to it. She stands up, begins packing away the kit. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. I’ll call for some Chinese, how about that?”

Later, as he picks through the chow mein noodles with finicky precision, she mulls over this strange thought, that Sherlock is here because he’s lonely. It makes sense, though it’s odd to think of him that way. He doesn’t like people, exactly, but before, he had…something resembling friendships, or at least not outright hostility, with John, or Greg, or Mrs. Hudson. Now though, from what she can gather, he is constantly on the run, moving from strange place to strange place. Sherlock is extraordinary, she knows, but deep down inside, he is as human as any of them. It has been almost 6 months since he’s gone, and as far as she knows, this is the first time he’s seen anyone with any fondness for him. 

“I saw John today,” she tells him. He remains silent, but she can see how he has suddenly tensed up. “He isn’t doing very well. He’s working full time at the surgery, if only for something to do, I think. He’s settled back into routine, but he’s having trouble. I can tell.” 

He makes an aborted movement with his hands. It could mean anything. “It’s been six months.”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s not very long.”

He looks disbelieving. “It feels like a lifetime.” She looks at him, and thinks, I was right. All she says, though, is, “It probably feels like that to him too.” 

He says harshly, “I can’t see him. I’m doing this for—You can’t tell him, Molly. It’s not safe.” 

“I know, Sherlock.” 

“Just…just keep an eye on him, won’t you?” 

“Of course, Sherlock.” It’s clear that the discussion is over. She begins gathering up the boxes. Sherlock sits at the table, hands pressed together in his thinking pose. 

Instead, she makes up a bed on the lilo, dragging out the extra comforter and pillows. When he comes out of the kitchen, rolling down his sleeves, she says, “I’ll kip on the lilo, so you can have a real bed for once. You’ll probably want a shower, you can use my things if you’d like, sorry I don’t have anything extra…” 

“Don’t be foolish Molly, it’s unnecessary. I don’t sleep well as is, and there’s no need for both of us to be uncomfortable.” She meets his eyes, and he says, with more emphasis, “Don’t be a fool.” 

“All right, fine. D’you want the loo first?”

He flaps his hands at her, which she takes for “no, you go.” 

She says, softly. “You’re welcome back, anytime. Any—anything you need, I’ll help you, best I can.” 

A long moment passes, as he searches her face. She wonders what he is seeing, with those razor sharp eyes. “I—yes, I know. Thank you, Molly.” 

She nods. “Good night, Sherlock.” 

In the morning, he’s gone, a ghost in the night. The comforter is neatly folded on the lilo, pillows stacked on top. She wonders if he even slept. She’s not Sherlock, so she can’t read the answer in the folds of the comforter. No use trying, so she gathers the bedding and puts it in the basket for the wash. In the kitchen, as she waits for the kettle to boil, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Sherlock Holmes is still alive. She hopes against hope that he will come home safe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings, tags, and ratings have been updated. Take note. Though, conflicted as to whether this actually warrants an "Explicit" rating. Thoughts?
> 
> Also in case it wasn't obvious...I do not own Sherlock Holmes and related and am not making any profit. This is a work of fiction.

The second time, it is a Saturday. She has work in the morning and lunch with Caroline, and afterwards does the shop for the week. At home, after the wash and hovering, she decides to take a late afternoon nap. When she wanders sleepily into the kitchen, Sherlock is standing on the linoleum making a cup of tea as Toby twines around his ankles. A small yelp escapes her, as she clutches her dressing gown together. She’s not really sure what’s more surprising—his presence, or the fact that he is able to perform small domestic tasks without explosions. When he hands her a cup, she raises an eyebrow. He glares at her.

“It’s a cup of tea, Molly, well within my skill set. Are you always this indolent? I’ve been here for hours.” She glances at the clock. It couldn’t have been more than two hours. He continues, “I know your promotion has increased your workload,” she’s not even going to ask how he knows, “but surely that’s no reason to begin sleeping in the middle of the day.” 

“Sherlock, it’s just a nap, and I was only asleep for an hour and a half! You could have woken me, you know.” 

He flutters a hand at her. “I needed to do some thinking. It’s not life threatening, anyway.”

For a moment, she contemplates chucking the teacup at his head, and is only stopped by the knowledge that she would then need to clean up shattered porcelain from the floor, and even then she would continue to get shards in her foot for days. “Right, well. Loo. Now.” 

He scowls at her, “Molly, really.”

She stares right back. “Really, Sherlock.” 

“And my tea?” 

“For the love of Christ, just bring it with you!” 

He huffs and strides toward the loo. In the doorway, he turns and says, “Well, coming?” as if it were his idea in the first place. She rolls her eyes and briefly considers making him suture his wound himself before following him into the small room, opening the cupboard and rummaging for the medical kit she’s put together. Toby follows her and leaps onto the tub to investigate these new events. “Ah, good, you’ve gotten some sutures of your own. Wonderful, I’m running low, myself.”

“It seemed like a good idea, after last time.” 

She watches him unbutton the shirt. In the better light, she realizes that his shirt is so stained with blood it looked black in the dim kitchen. She presses her lips together at the thought of how much blood he must have lost. “You’ll have to burn that, you know.” 

He meets her eyes, raises his eyebrow. Obviously. He strips off the shirt, tossing it into the tub, and presents himself for her inspection.

There are more scars on his body. The one that she had stitched up all those months ago has healed into a rough scar. There are a series of lines on his chest, five horizontal lines, nearly healed. Another scar traces across his abdomen, and another down his right arm, this one so recent that there are still awkward stitches. Molly knows that Sherlock wasn’t lying when he said he stitched his wounds himself, but the mental fortitude that it would take…it was hard to imagine. She supposes that if anyone could manage it, it would Sherlock. The one that requires her attention is on his back, between his shoulder blades. There are other fresh cuts as well, which would account for all the blood, but only the one would require stitching.

Toby decides to take the leap and jumps into Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock startles. “What—” Molly sighs, “Oh Toby. He just wants you to pet him.” Sherlock begins to stroke his back, hesitantly, causing the cat to purr approvingly. He sips his tea with one hand. It’s weirdly domestic—tea, cat, and stitches.

She’s about halfway done when he asks abruptly, “And how is your friend? Back with her alcoholic boyfriend I see?” 

“Why are you asking, Sherlock? It’s not like you care.”

“I’m told that small talk is a necessary social lubricant.” 

For what, she wants to ask. Instead, she said, “I think that’s alcohol, and no, if wanted to make small talk, you could tell me where you’ve been.” She means it as an idle question, a way of passing the time.

He pauses for a long moment, as if the words are trembling on the very edge of his tongue before he pulls them back. “It’s best if you don’t know.” Molly supposes that she could see the truth in that. They sit in silence, broken by Toby’s pleased purrs.

“There,” she says, neatly taping the gauze in place. “That should be hold it, but be careful when you’re moving. The stitches might tear.” He scoffs at the obvious. 

“The quality of your stitches have improved quite dramatically, Molly.” 

She begins to pack away the medical kit she’s smuggled from the hospital. “Yes, well, after last time I thought it might be…prudent…to have some practice.” She stands up, kit in hand. “I’ve left you some things under the sink, you can wash up. There’s a bit of curry left in the fridge if you’re hungry.” 

He reaches out and captures her hand. She startles slightly at the contact. “Thank you, Molly.”  
She holds his remarkable eyes. “Of course, Sherlock.” 

She eats the other half of the curry while he showers. When he swans back into the room, his hair wet around his face, he ignores her offer to warm up the curry in favor of his thinking pose at her table. Toby jumps up into his lap, apparently his new favorite place, but when Sherlock ignores him, Toby jumps down, affronted. She shakes her head and goes to get the extra bedding from the cupboard by her room. She’s surprised at how comfortable this is, how nice it is to have another person around in her flat. The last time she’s lived with roommates was a year out of uni, when she still couldn’t afford to let a flat on her own. Then she was living with Seth for two years, until that relationship crumbled. There’s been no one serious since. And since then, Molly has lived alone in this one bedroom flat. She likes it, for the most part. It’s not so large that cleaning is a pain, but the higher ceilings make it seem spacious. She likes her neighbors well enough, though they usually only make small talk on the rare occasion they pass in the corridors. She has friends, of course, Caroline and Mary and Evelyn, who all went to uni together, but they’re busy with their own lives. She sees them together, once every couple of months or so, and individually, they sporadically see each other. Sometimes, she longs for the time when it was rare to pass a week without seeing them. 

“You’re the only one who touches me.” Molly jumps, startled out of her thoughts. Sherlock is standing right behind her. “Uh…yes, well. It would be a bit difficult to stitch you up otherwise. Can’t be letting those wounds fester anyhow. Bad for healing, you know.” 

He is standing very close to her. That’s nothing new; he’s always done that—she’s actually not sure if he understands the concept of personal space—but he’s never stood so close. He says, so softly she almost can’t hear it, “No one touches me anymore.”

She’s not sure if he leans down or if she stretches up, but suddenly she is kissing Sherlock Holmes. And of course, because there is no justice in this world, he is an absolutely brilliant kisser. His lips are chapped, but warm and insistent against hers as he holds her hips possessively and crowds her against the door, pressing every inch of his long, lean body against her. He pulls back, slightly, and searches her face. She wonders what he might be reading, if he knows how she’s feeling—of course he does, he knows exactly how she feels. 

Molly doesn’t exactly have a stellar track record when it comes to men (or women…and the less said about that incident, the better). Case in point, her last boyfriend turned out to be a certified, card and gun-carrying sociopath. She and Jim had scarcely even held hands—and really, she’s quite glad of that now, glad that they only went on a few dates before she broke it off. The thought of someone like him touching her…it makes her skin crawl. And even before that…when was the last time she’d touched anyone like this?

She’s always been busy, working long hours in the morgue, since they’ve been so chronically short-staffed, and now, with Sherlock appearing in her flat at all hours, it’s simply not safe for her to bring anyone home. Besides, she admits with a pang, there’s no one remotely interesting at all. For the most part, she is doing quite well, thank you very much, but she has needs like any other woman.

There is a small, rational part of her brain that steps back and surveys the situation coolly. He doesn’t care about you, my girl. He likes you well enough, as much as he likes anyone, and he might even consider you a friend. But. He doesn’t care about you that way, and you know it. He’s lonely. You can see it. He said himself—no one has touched him in months, except to hurt him. You know what it’s like—well, not exactly—but the superficial touch, the professional touch, the touch of anyone and everyone except for someone who loves you, who maybe even desire you. This you know. You know how in the lonely nights it’s like a physical ache, as your body craves for touch, for desire, how your skin hungers for the warmth and press of another body. Here there be dragons, Molly, and there’s a difference between admiring one from the distance and walking willingly into its lair.

These thoughts flit through her head to the combined soundtrack of Toby’s curious meows at this man molesting her, to the pleasant feeling of his lips on hers, to the warmth of his body against hers. 

Sod it all, she thinks. It has been too long since she’s been laid—or like Sherlock, even touched this way. They’re both willing and consenting adults, and he really is the most gorgeous man she has ever seen. She tips her head back, and presses up into him with open mouth and eager tongue, and slides her hand up his back. He moans as she begins to unbutton his shirt with the other hand, and she can feel him harden against her stomach. He reaches behind her and opens her bedroom door. They stumble through into her bedroom, slamming the door on Toby’s indignant, “Mew!” both stripping their shirts off hastily. Really, given the state of her floor and their minds, it’s a minor miracle neither of them trips and breaks something before they fall onto her bed. He rolls onto her, grinding shamelessly as he drags his lips down her neck, biting at her clavicle, and then settling on her breasts. He tongues one nipple, watching her with dark eyes as she mewls and quivers. Molly retaliates by sliding one hand down his chest, and slipping it beneath his denims. She wraps her hand around his hot, velvety length, and is almost surprised at the surge of desire she feels. He gasps, hips jerking forward, as she begins to firmly stroke him, rubbing her thumb over the head. 

He murmurs, “I want—” and she says, “Yes, please, I, yes—” She fumbles in her drawer. The condoms are still unexpired, thank God. He shimmies out of his denims, before hooking his hands under her pajama bottoms, sliding them off and tossing them on the floor. They’re kneeling now, and she inhales sharply as he grabs her arse and pulls their naked bodies together. She rolls a condom onto him before he presses her back into the mattress. When he slides into her, she arches into the slow burn of pleasure, spiked with pain. Fuck, that’s good. It’s been so long, her body has tightened and forgotten the sensation, her vibrator a poor substitute. 

When he’s buried completely in her, he stills, burying his face in her neck. She pets his hair and murmurs, “All right?” 

He chuckles, the vibrations causing pleasure to spark up her spine. Instead of answering the question, he rolls his hips, drawing out low moan. And she wraps her legs around him and begins to rock her hips up with intent, perhaps concentrating more on her own pleasure than his, if she was being honest. But Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind as he braces himself and begins thrusting into her, until each breath huffs out in moaning whimpers. It’s hot and intense and it isn’t long before she can feel herself tightening around his thick cock. When she comes, her skin tingles and her moans become a high-pitched wail. She hasn’t had an orgasm this intense in years. Sherlock’s thrusts become more erratic, his breath short as he tips his head back and pounds into her until he too is coming, arching his back and shivering. He pulls out of her almost immediately, carefully sliding the condom off before flopping down in a boneless heap. Silence reigns for several breathless minutes. When the orgasm high begins to wear off, Molly turns to Sherlock, only to realize that he’s fallen asleep. She wonders if this is his attempt to avoid awkward post-coital conversation (it’s working), but she’s too shagged out to care, really. She rolls over onto her side before shuffling backwards until she tucked up against Sherlock’s side. She doubts he’s the cuddling type, but she does miss falling asleep with the warmth of another body.

When she wakes up, she is alone. She wonders if last night was real, if maybe she made it up in a fit of insanity but no, the other side of the bed is still warm, and she is pleasantly sore. She sighs, rolls over onto the other pillow, and breathes in. There is the faint smell of cologne, laced with cigarettes. She drifts back into sleep.

Later, when her alarm goes off she finally drags herself out of the bed. She’s not normally a fan of morning showers, but it seems to be a good idea. As the hot water beats down and her thoughts wander, she is struck by a morbid thought. If Sherlock died, somewhere out there doing whatever he’s doing, died for real—would she know? Now, the way things are—he disappears, doesn’t communicate for months at a time. How long would it take? How long before someone realized something was wrong? Would there be a coded message, slipped into her mailbox, pressed into her hand by a faceless stranger? He’s dead for real, this time. This is not a magic trick. 

What would she do? She didn’t really grieve, the first time. After all, she knew the secret. Oh, she attended the funeral and cried, actually cried, because she felt so terrible for John and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, all of them so shattered looking. She hated Sherlock for a while, then, for making her do this, for making them all suffer like that. And she felt so guilty, standing there with the knowledge, like they’re all starving and she has the last bit of food that she’s greedily clutching for herself. And if Sherlock really died? It would be like having that bit of food melt through your fingers as you tried to eat. 

She thinks these thoughts, safe in the privacy of the shower, the warm water and the curtain a barrier against the world where Sherlock Holmes has been dead and mourned over a year now.

The mobile interrupts her, clattering against the countertop. She ignores it, but not a minute passes before it rings again, shrill and insistent. She wonders who could possibly need to reach her on a Sunday mor—oh, bugger. She was supposed to show Detective Inspector Lestrade a body this morning. She knocks her head against the wall and mutters a few more choice swears before hastily rinsing and scrambling out of the shower, her earlier meditative state completely shattered. She puts her mobile on speaker before hitting the re-dial.

“Molly? I was getting worried. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m so very sorry Detective Inspector! I just—(was shagging Sherlock Holmes, who is supposed to be dead, but isn’t really and isn’t that something?) overslept, I’m so sorry!”

“Sure, Molly, no worries. Happens to the best of us, yeah? Should we reschedule for later in the afternoon?”

“If you’d like, certainly, or else I can meet you there in…half an hour?” It’d be a stretch, but she could make it.

“Half an hour’d be fine, but really, don’t trouble y’self.”

“No, no, it’s no trouble at all. See you in a bit!”

And she’s gone, all thoughts of Sherlock momentarily banished. Later, much later, when she returns to her flat, she’ll realize that anything that might have alluded to his presence is gone—the bloodstained shirt, the used condom, and of course all his things. The only indication that he’d been in her flat at all was not the presence of an item, but rather, the absence. He’d eaten the other half of the curry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented/kudo’ed/subscribed/bookmarked. This is my first foray into fanfiction and it’s lovely to know someone is enjoying this!

The third time is not, precisely, a surprise. She’d received a coded message that had taken her a week to decipher, and another two weeks to assemble everything he’s asked for. It’s all very James Bond. She snorts a laugh at the thought of Sherlock as James Bond. Would he even recognize the reference? But, she thinks, in many ways it’s quite true. He doesn’t discuss the details (and really, she doesn’t want to know) but his scars tell the story of someone intimately acquainted with violence and danger. He said so himself, as she stitched up his skin: “I killed him, after.” Yes, he is James Bond, but it’s not glamour and martinis. No, it’s blood and duty and cold nights and a road that takes you ever further from home with no promise of returning.

And what would that make her? One of the beautiful, lethal Bond girls? No, that’s silly. Molly knows she’s not beautiful in that way. Sure, her face is well enough to look at, with good regular features, but her hair is mousy and brown, her eyes too small and close together. She’s long ago accepted that she will never be a beauty. And lethal? That’s a laugh. She can barely kill invading spiders. The best she can manage is throwing shoes and hoping the creatures don’t scuttle too quickly. This life, this mission, is not one she would have ever wanted for herself. Despite that, Sherlock has chosen her, and she will do what she can.

She’s not precisely sure how she’s supposed to let him know she’s ready, but of course Sherlock knows. It is scarcely three days after she obtains the last item—a liter of pure hydrofluoric acid—when he appears in her flat. It is nearly midnight, and she is reading in bed. She hears him, this time, and nearly brains him with the tyre iron she keeps under her bed. 

“You could just knock.”

He ignores her. “Doesn’t it bother you that I’m able to break into your flat so easily? It may not always be someone with…non malicious intent.” 

She waves the tyre iron meaningfully. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, if it was a question of brute force, that wouldn’t help you. Do you have everything?”

“Uh, yes—”

“Good, very good. Did you get my other message? No, of course not. Never mind, it’ll have to do. No, no food, I’m not hungry.”

She looks at him closely. His hair is dyed ginger, and his clothes are nondescript as usual. The dark circles are present and she wonders when was the last time he slept. Despite that, his eyes are dilated, burning with manic intensity; his movements frenetic with barely contained energy. With a sinking feeling, she realizes that he is completely strung out on cocaine. Oh, Sherlock. 

“Sherlock—”

“Spare me the tedious lecture, Molly. It helps me with the work. Surely you see the rationale, hm? The sooner I finish the better? I am close, so close. I just need to know just how the Lippincott Group is connected to the Garrideb corporation. I have searched all their records; there’s no hint of corruption or wrong-doing…”

John would be so disappointed. Molly holds back the words that she know would make him listen. She watches him as he paces the room restlessly. Quietly, she says, “Well, if you need anything…” He doesn’t respond; she’s not sure if he hears her. She leaves him to his muttering, crawling back under her covers. 

She flails awake to someone—Sherlock, she realizes—sliding into bed behind her. “Sherlock—what?” 

Silently, he presses his body against hers, sliding his hands over her hips. 

Molly knows she should say no, that this isn’t a good idea, but the warmth of his hands feels good and oh, how she wants. She answers his unasked question by grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath her sleeping shorts—and it surprises her, she’s not bold like this, but it’s dark and it’s Sherlock and she doesn’t care anymore—and he takes the hint, pressing a finger into her as she arches into his touch. She drops her head back onto his shoulder, eyes closed, as he presses two, then three fingers into her, leaving her gasping and clutching the covers. With the other hand, he slides her shorts down, pulls her shirt over her head. She thinks, perhaps, that she should reciprocate, but instead she opens the drawer and fumbles for a condom. 

He urges her up on her knees before thrusting into her. He fucks her roughly, drawing out breathless moans and cries that she muffles in the pillow. He leans into her, pressing his chest into her back, breathing heavily with short groans. Almost absently, he presses his lips to her left shoulder blade, tracing it with his tongue. She wonders why. She doesn’t have any marks or scars there. This time, it takes him much longer to finish, his choked off gasp the loudest sound he’s made. She doesn’t come.

After, they lie beneath the covers, panting. Sherlock presses in behind her, breathes into her hair. She shivers at the sweet slide of warm skin. His hands rest on her hips, fingers absently circling. It’s an intimate gesture that she never would have expected from him. 

He is still awake, and she wants to ask, why are we doing this? who am I to you?—but does it matter? He is a dead man, and the loneliest man in the world. Whatever sort of strange relationship this is, there is no space for intimate thoughts. 

Instead, she wonders, how the hell did I get to this point? 

After Seth, she was sure that it would be only a matter of time—five years, at most—before she met someone with whom she could settle down, get married, and have a family. The days slipped past, then the months, then the years. She begins making compromises. It’s all right if he doesn’t want kids. It’s all right if he travels every month. It’s all right if he doesn’t want anything serious right now. She’s tried being set-up, she’s tried online dating, she’s tried almost anything short of wearing a sign: Single and Desperate. All she has to show for it are a string of short-term relationships and awkward first dates. 

She tries not to let it get to her, the pervasive feeling of loneliness. She sees it everyday, at the morgue, with all the unclaimed bodies. It makes her sad that these people were so unimportant, that no one even noticed their absence. When she feels especially morbid, she thinks that if she ever turned up dead, at the very least, she will probably not go unidentified. After all, it would really be a special kind of terrible if her own co-workers didn’t recognize her. 

For the most part, she’s made her peace with it. She’s smart, pretty enough, successful, with a good job and hobbies and friends and family who love her, dammit. Most days it’s enough. She has flaws, but no one’s perfect—and yet. And yet. Here she is, 35. Single, with one cat. 

She focuses on her career. She travels frequently and is always willing to let a friend crash on the couch. She spends her money however she pleases, and lets her minor OCD populate the flat exactly the way she likes. She revels in her singlehood, because the alternative is to cry. 

How is it that the last two times I’ve had sex, it’s with Sherlock Holmes, arguably the most ineligible bachelor in the world? Well, Molly thinks she knows the answer to that. They are just two lonely people in the cold desert of their lives, clinging to each other for even the smallest bit of warmth. 

When she wakes up to the grey morning light, she is alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the last chapter for my first ever fanfiction! This was a difficult one to write. Thank you to everyone who read and commented! I really appreciate all of you.

The next time she sees him, it’s on the evening news. It’s been a long week at work, and she’s just come back from a girls’ night at the pub, buoyant and pleasantly tipsy. She flops down on the lilo and flips on the telly, thinking to pop in a Doctor Who DVD. The news channel comes up, and the air is stolen from her lungs. It’s a live conference, and there’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, worn and gaunt but as haughty as ever, wrapped again in his wool greatcoat with John standing impassively at his side. He is alive, gloriously alive; he has succeeded in his impossible quest. She can feel the relief rushing through her veins—and yet, a small hollow opens up under her breastbone. She hadn’t even known that he had finished his mission, had resurrected himself from the dead. She supposes, it’s right that he tells John first; in fact if he hadn’t, she would have dragged him over herself. But telling the whole world now? Perhaps he thought that I already knew. There’s no reason…

She cradles this dwindling ember of hope as hours stretch into days pass into weeks. She goes to work, sees her girls, does the shop, plays with Toby, spends quiet evenings at home. He doesn’t visit, doesn’t break into her flat, doesn’t pop up at the morgue. She knows he’s moved back into 221B Baker Street, gossip passed from DI Lestrade. Just casual chatter about a mutual acquaintance, and well, what a shocking story it is—Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead—vindicated and victorious. She does her best to look surprised and wondering, though she doubts he would notice. 

The next time she sees him, it has been nearly two months. He sweeps into the morgue with DI Lestrade, John in his wake. It’s so much like old times that Molly has an intense feeling of déjà vu, so strong she clutches the counter to ground herself. For a brief moment, she wonders if the last three years have been real, if it was just a hallucination—but no, they’re older, all of them, and their faces weathered with the knowledge of how cruel and unforgiving the world can be. 

They’re here for a case, of course. Like no time has passed. Sherlock meets her eyes once, before his gaze flickers away. 

She wheels the body out for them before retreating to her desk, where she pretends to work on the computer. She watches the three men over the top of the monitor. Lestrade, arms crossed, solid as ever. Sherlock darting about, carefully examining the body, gesturing for John to look at the bruising pattern. John, leaning closer, nodding thoughtfully. She looks and looks again, and she knows, with cold certainty. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

It’s not a surprise really—in fact, it’s painfully obvious. Sherlock is as guarded as ever, but she can just barely discern the faintest smile, the lingering gaze. And John—well, he wears his happiness all over him. They circle around the body, never straying too far from their interlocking orbits, keeping others out. It’s not conscious, she’s sure, but they’re two magnets, so electric you can see the sparks. Most people never find their soulmate or even come close to having as meaningful of a relationship with anyone as those two men. This. This is all she ever wanted. If anyone ever looked at her that way, she would follow them to the ends of the earth. Compared to that, who was she? Just Molly Hooper. No one particularly special. And she can feel the burning behind her eyes, in her throat, and emptiness in her chest. And she watches John, who looks alive for the first time in years, and she cannot—does not say a word. Of all people, he deserves this, deserves what happiness he can find. What could she say anyway? 

Sherlock’s got what he’s wanted. She should have known. What do you need? You. And there she was. Now, he has everything he needs. Is this what it feels like, to be the other woman, finding out that she was just an afterthought all along? She was there when he needed her, convenient. Rationally, she had always known that he doesn’t care for her, doesn’t love her, but it’s different when the evidence is right there in front of her eyes. 

She’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t depend on anyone, not really. And that’s really something awful, isn’t it? When even those who are supposed to love you and care for you—don’t? can’t? won’t? She thought Seth would always love her, that they would get married and have babies and fight and make up and raise a family and grow old together—the natural progression of life. 

Instead, they fell apart. And it wasn’t even anything grand. There isn’t a fight, a lover, or distance. Just, “I don’t love you anymore” following her out the door, trailing her as she walked the sidewalks in a haze until her feet brought her to Mary’s door, who took one look at her face and said, “Oh, honey.” She spent the night curled up in Mary’s bed, couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone on the couch. She calls in sick the next day and just stays in bed, catatonic, too numb to cry. Somehow, she went into work the next day, cynically grateful that most of the people she sees on a daily basis are dead. Somehow, she kept going, one foot in front of the other. And she was so sure, so sure that she would die because how do you live without a heart? How do you breathe when there is no reason to keep going? And she does wonder sometimes, how do people bear it? How can they loan their heart out without fear? Sometimes she thinks she’d rather not do it again—fall in love, that is—because she doesn’t want to be this empty again. But no, nature was not so kind—or cruel?— because here she is all these years later, again with that empty ache.

And still, why? She doesn’t harbor any real illusions about their relationship. They are—were two desperately lonely people clinging to whatever scraps of comfort they could scrounge. That’s all it was then—comfort. Comfort and feeling of being a little less alone, at least for those few minutes, pressed skin to skin with someone who knows you, knows your secrets, down to your bones. To be known, to be seen, to be held. It’s all any of us want, isn’t it? Now he is no longer alone. 

“Molly.” She starts. He’s standing beside her. They’re alone in the room. She looks up, meets his eyes. He clears his throat. “I wanted to thank you for all of your assistance in the past three years. Without you, I could not have survived. I could not have come back.

“You were…instrumental to me. Essential.” He pauses. “If you need…anything. You need but to ask.”

She looks at him, sweeps him up and down. “I see. No. I don’t need anything.” 

In fact, she thinks he really does mean it, that if she requested the moon at this moment he would do his best to capture it for her; and it seems he really does care about her in his own strange way. There aren’t many who would say this, but Sherlock is loyal and true down to the very core. 

She wants to ask him, Did you—do you ever think of me? Will you tell me, what you did all these years? Will you just pretend that nothing has happened? Will you tell John? Have you already? 

She says nothing.

He looks at her, brows creased. “You haven’t been sleeping well lately, and judging from the looseness of your clothes, you haven’t been eating well either. You—”

She doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to know what he might deduce from the state of her clothing, the way she applied her make-up in the morning. “No. Just…no. It doesn’t matter.” 

He looks at her with a strange expression. “You matter.”

She stares right back at him, “No, I don’t,” and she knows with cold certainty that it is the truth. 

She will never matter to him the same way that John does. She can feel this knowledge taking up residence beneath her heart and though it burns, Molly finally feels free. She knows exactly where she stands with him. She has been alone and broken before, and it was terrible and suffocating but she survived, somehow. 

He continues to study her, with the intensity of a philosopher pondering a new conundrum. She wonders what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking in that strange mind of his. She is suddenly exhausted. “Just…just go, Sherlock.” He hesitates, opens his mouth. She cuts him off with an upraised palm. “Go, Sherlock.” He rakes his eyes over her, once more, before he nods to her and slides out of the room, taking the air with him. 

She slumps in her chair, too tired to move. She’s not sure how long she sits, palms pressed against her eyes. Eventually, she takes a deep breath and stands. 

After closing up at work, instead of taking the Tube, she walks home from work. The streets are crowded with people bustling about their daily lives, out and about despite the cool drizzle. All she feels is the thump of her feet against the concrete, her hands clenched in her pocket, dull static in her head. When she finally closes the door behind her, she takes off her shoes, and curls up on her bed. In the darkness of her room, she closes her eyes and wonders if she will ever be able to purge him from her mind and body; but no, he’s etched onto her bones, swirled into her veins, and grown into her heart like a tumor. Inoperable, untreatable, terminal. That’s Sherlock Holmes, a whirlwind force of nature that she could no more refuse than fly. She wishes she could forget him, but she would more easily forget herself first.

He doesn’t love me. Molly never would have thought this, but there is power in knowing that you are not loved. The knowledge that you only need to look out for yourself is intoxicating. It’s a terrible and wonderful gift, that knowledge. 

There has never been any certainty in her world, a world where the impossible happens and dead men walk again. The only constant has been herself, and she thinks, I have survived until now. I am here and I will be here. She clutches the knowledge that nothing lasts forever, and she thinks, “This. This will have to be enough.”


End file.
